


Cuddle Therapy

by alisvolatpropiis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Erica Reyes, Alive Vernon Boyd, Alpha Derek Hale, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Derek and Stiles Cuddle, Derek deals with his trauma in a healthy way, Derek is a Good Alpha, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hunger Games References, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:43:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dude, did you know that Derek’s into dudes?” Scott asks the question as he shoves a folded piece of meat lover’s pizza in his mouth, last few words turning to mumbled mush.</p><p>Stiles tells himself that’s why he has to ask him to repeat it twice, even though Scott-talking-with-his-mouth-full is practically his second language, mastered when they were first graders, along with Scott-needs-to-use-his-puppy-eyes-now-because-words-are-hard-for-him-sometimes and Scott-talking-while-trying-to-pretend-he’s-not-having-an-asthma-attack (now a dead language thanks to the vigorous application of werewolfdom).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cuddle Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> This is another ficlet that turned in a 3k oneshot (oops. again). I really needed some Sterek sweetness and snuggles yesterday and then FEELS happened.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!! XOXO
> 
> *I've been asked to include a warning for a brief mention of pot use.

“Dude, did you know that Derek’s into dudes?” Scott asks the question as he shoves a folded piece of meat lover’s pizza in his mouth, last few words turning to mumbled mush.

Stiles tells himself that’s why he has to ask him to repeat it twice, even though Scott-talking-with-his-mouth-full is practically his second language, mastered when they were first graders, along with Scott-needs-to-use-his-puppy-eyes-now-because-words-are-hard-for-him-sometimes and Scott-talking-while-trying-to-pretend-he’s-not-having-an-asthma-attack (now a dead language thanks to the vigorous application of werewolfdom).

“ _Dudes_ ,” Scott nearly yells the third time he says it. “Derek smells like another dude lately. A stranger. A stranger that he’s been…intimate with.”

Stiles’ stomach feels a little queasy, appetite fading. “Intimate? I thought you all agreed to not notice things like that?”

“I don’t know if they’re having sex, but it definitely smells like he’s spending a lot of time with this guy. Like he’s close to him, physically close to him, a lot. And he’s even harder to get a hold of than usual. He’s totally dating some guy and doesn’t want to tell the pack about it for some reason.”

“Maybe because his last two relationships were with murderous psychos? He’s probably trying to protect us, minimize the damage.” Stiles means to sound derisive of Derek’s endless self-sacrificing ways, but it comes out more like reluctant affection.

“The last two that we know about,” Scott muses, picking up another slice. “He had a life before he came back here, you know.”

“A life where he maybe dated dudes.” Stiles says it quietly, distracted by the new, strange spin of hope and jealousy twisting in his chest.

**~*~  
**

They don’t get hunted or taken hostage or magicked into life-or-death situations for awhile, so it’s safe to assume that whoever Derek’s dating isn’t a demon or a hunter or an embittered emissary.

Stiles is happy for Derek. Mostly.

Derek still doesn’t introduce his mystery man to any of them, or even mention the fact that he’s seeing someone, not even when Erica gives him a chance to when she brazenly asks him if he’s bisexual one night when they gather at the newly rebuilt Hale house to watch The Hunger Games. Derek had looked up from the thick Spanish novel he was reading to level her with a cool stare.

“Yes,” he answered, looking back down to his book, conversation over.

That mix of jealousy and hope is all too familiar by now.

**~*~**

He’s just curious, okay?

It’s _weird_ how Derek has been seeing someone and not a single member of the pack has ever met him or even knows his name – even though every single one of the werewolves knows his scent, and knows it well. Their alpha’s covered in it, after all. (Stiles had asked Scott to describe it to him once, when they were lying on the lawn in the backyard smoking joints, Scott’s wolfsbane-laced. “Grassy,” he had answered before dissolving into a fit of useless giggles.)

So Stiles hatches a scheme of sorts. He starts texting Derek more, at first just to see if he’ll respond to a non-mortal peril situation text, making a joke about Isaac’s scarf; Derek surprises him when he texts back almost immediately, saying he’d rather look at Isaac’s scarves than Peter’s deep Vs, and between the two of them, they might just be able to make a complete shirt.

Stiles laughs loudly and replies quickly. **Damn. Who knew the alpha’s got jokes?**

And then it kinda never stops. The next thing he knows, more than a week passes in a blur, wrapped up as he is in his text conversations with Derek. Stiles complains to him about school and college applications. They talk about TV shows and comics and movies and foods they love and foods they hate. When Derek tells him that he refuses to eat cooked fruit in any form, for some reason it makes Stiles want to pinch his cheek even though he can’t even see him; he tells him that his mom’s apple pie recipe might change his mind. And then Derek’s sharing little details about his parents too. He tells him about how his dad used read him The Hobbit when he was little and how his mom insisted that he learn Spanish and French at a early age.

It’s nice, learning more about Derek, and sharing little bits of himself. He’s so thrilled at this new development in their relationship that he forgets he started this all with an ulterior motive: figure out who in the hell Derek is dating.

And what he has that Stiles doesn’t.

**~*~**

He’s reminded of his plan when Derek doesn’t text back right away; for the past week, he’s always responded within no more than twenty, thirty minutes. When two hours go by with no reply, Stiles hops in the Jeep and heads to Derek’s house, determined to see if it’s this secret boyfriend that has Derek’s attentions, thinking of Scott’s observation that Derek has been harder to get in contact with lately.

Except when Stiles texts him, apparently, which is weird. And awesome.

His heart starts racing when he sees an unfamiliar Prius parked next to Derek’s Camaro; he focuses instead on thinking of excuses for dropping by unannounced – maybe something about leaving a book he needs for a paper due tomorrow – when he raises his fist to knock on the door, only to have it swing open before he can. Derek is standing there with an unfamiliar guy who’s clearly on his way out.

The guy. The mystery man. Derek’s boyfriend.

He’s older than Derek, late thirties maybe, but he exudes a youthful calm that Stiles instantly dislikes, but that might have something to do with the fact that he’s standing so close to Derek and is also quite attractive, with vivid blue eyes and longish sandy blonde hair, and a bright, genuine smile.

“Hi there,” he says to Stiles, friendly, but clearly not intending to make introductions, or hang around at all. “Derek, I’ll see you soon,” he says, giving him a gentle squeeze above his elbow that makes Stiles’ stomach flip. Attractive-but-still-nameless boyfriend leaves, nodding at Stiles once again as he walks past him to his car.

Derek looks…well, not exactly pissed, but definitely not happy to see Stiles. And maybe…embarrassed too? But Stiles has never seen Derek look embarrassed before, didn’t even know his sharp-edged features could convey such a soft emotion, or that his cheeks could pink ever so slightly. He also looks a little sleepy, like he just rolled out of bed, even though it’s early afternoon. He’s wearing cozy-looking black fleece sweats that hang low on his hips, and a soft lavender t-shirt, hair mussed and ruffled.

He’s utterly gorgeous and sweet-looking, and Stiles _hates_ it, because that guy, some stranger with too-white teeth and a pretentious car, made him look that way.

“Stiles.” It’s a little curt, but he steps back from the door, not an enthusiastic welcome but an invitation to come in nonetheless.

“So, uh, who’s your friend,” he asks, trying to sound casual, following Derek into the living room.

“Patrick,” he answers. Stiles waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t, just stands there, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweats, letting the name hang between them like Stiles should know who in the hell Patrick-the-Prius-driving-pretty-man is.

“So he’s the guy you’ve been dating? I can’t smell him, so I don’t know for sure.” His heart is still racing, far more than he’d like, so he looks way from Derek, trying to maintain his composure, irritated at himself for getting so worked up about this.

Fortunately, he’s distracted by a new addition to his living room, a godawful blob near the new electric fireplace. It looks like a bean bag chair, but this is no basement rec room bean bag chair; this is a bean bag chair on steroids, at least six feet in diameter, puffy and soft-looking and covered in fur. Grayish-brown fur that is slightly shiny, clearly synthetic. It’s hideous, but goddamn, it looks _comfortable._ It looks well-used too, still holding the shape of two people, Derek and _Patrick_.

“Dating?” Derek’s eyebrows go up, sleepy eyes getting bright at he looks at Stiles more closely. “No, we’re not dating.” He says it reluctantly, like he wishes that weren’t the case or something, and fuck, that _hurts_ way more than it ought to.

“Oh,” he replies, nodding in understanding, because he _does understand_ , all too well. “A friend you’d like something more with, then. That explains why the others smelled him on you but didn’t think you were having sex with him.” Stiles is jabbering on now, trying to play it cool, figuring that it serves him right that his scheme has ended up in him comforting Derek for having unrequited feelings towards a friend, has to admire the karmic balance of it.

“No, that’s not it either. It’s a professional relationship.”

Stiles is relieved, but even more confused. “Professional?”

Derek sighs heavily in resignation, hanging his head in what is unmistakably embarrassment now. He murmurs something that gets lost in his chest, voice so soft and quiet Stiles can’t understand him, has to step forward and ask him to repeat himself.

“Cuddle therapy,” Derek says, imperceptibly louder, cheeks full on pink now, tips of his adorable little ears too. “Patrick is an intimacy counselor.”

“Cuddle therapy,” Stiles squawks, sounding incredulous and instantly feeling like shit about it when Derek’s face goes hard and blank. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m not making fun of you. I’m just surprised.”

Derek crosses his arms, defensive, and levels an even harsher stare at him. Okay, it’s a piercing death glare. It’s familiar, at least.

“Come on dude,” Stiles stammers on. “You can’t really blame me for being surprised.” He waves an arm at his very intense and menacing presence, cozy pajamas be damned. “You’re not exactly the cuddling type.”

Derek’s expression changes from Stiles-I’m-going-rip-your-throat-out to Stiles-I-can’t-believe-you-can-be-so-dumb-sometimes, also quite familiar. (Stiles picked up on Derekese pretty quickly into their relationship).

Even so, there’s the tiniest hint of a grin, just a little twitch really, playing at the corner of his mouth, deadpan dry wit when he speaks again. “Hence the therapy.”

**~*~**

They’re sitting on the couch now, clutching mugs of herbal tea, because apparently that’s a post-cuddling therapy session thing Derek does. He seems to believe that Stiles isn’t mocking him, or maybe he’s just resigned himself to Stiles knowing.

Stiles doesn’t want to be invasive, but he can’t help his curiosity, feels like maybe their text conversations have shown Derek that he’s someone who can be trusted with his feelings.

Apparently so, because Derek explains, unprompted, still a little awkward and shy about it. “After everything with Jennifer, and Kate too, I guess, I was…recoiling from others? Not wanting to trust anyone, not even wanting people to touch me, which isn’t normal for a born wolf. We’re more like actual wolves in that way, touch is important to us, comforting. Deaton suggested cuddle therapy as a way to get comfortable with people again. It’s been helping.”

Derek sips his tea, watching Stiles over the brim of the steaming mug. It makes perfect sense, really, why Derek would have trust and intimacy issues after everything he’s been through, after everything that’s been done to him by people who claimed to love him, who used his body and his emotions to manipulate him, to wreak havoc on his life and on the lives of everyone he cares about.

Stiles suddenly, vividly, remembers yelling at Derek in the hospital when he didn’t know if his father was dead or alive, blaming him and his terrible taste in women. God, he’s such an asshole.

He remembers too, the way Derek just stood there and _let him_.

“So how does it work,” he asks, clearing his throat, voice sounding a little thick. “I’m guessing this ugly thing has something to do with it,” he adds, kicking the faux fur monstrosity.

Derek smiles into his tea. “They recommend a comfortable, neutral space. It’s called a lovesac, and it’s amazing.”

“Looks like it. So you and Patrick just, uh, snuggle up on the lovesac?”

“Essentially. It’s platonic. It’s about comfort and relaxation. Getting accustomed to closeness, learning to enjoy physical intimacy again.”

Stiles can’t help the relief he feels, tries to tamp down the corresponding hope. This isn’t about that.

“How often?”

“A couple hours a day, three times a week. It’s been a week though, since our last session. Patrick was out of town.”

Well that explains Derek’s constant availability this past week, Stiles thinks wryly. Although it doesn’t explain Derek’s willingness to respond to him so quickly when he’s not cuddling away his demons.

“Do you like, talk and stuff?”

“A little, but not usually. It’s nice to just…not have to talk sometimes, you know? I’ve been falling asleep more lately, which Patrick says is a good thing. A sign of trust, to sleep next to someone.”

“I’m really happy for you, Derek,” he says softly, meaning it. Now that he’s had some time to process this, it strikes him that he may be more surprised that Derek sought out help at all than at the kind of help he is seeking out. “I mean, not that you know…you’re struggling with stuff. But that you’re doing better. I’m happy that you’re doing better.”

“I know what you meant,” he smiles. “I speak Stiles.”

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes. “So, you like, pay for this therapy?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask…why didn’t you ask someone in the pack?” He pauses slightly, tripping over what he really wants to ask, going with the safer question instead. “I mean, you’re the alpha of a pack of werewolves. Surely one of them could cuddle you for free? Boyd looks like an excellent snuggler.”

Derek looks at him quizzically for a second, like maybe he’s hearing the question Stiles is really asking, but it’s fleeting, gone before he speaks. “That’s just it. I’m the alpha.”

“Do you really think any of them would think any less of you as an alpha for needing physical comfort?”

“No, that’s not why. I’m the alpha. They have to obey me. I didn’t want to ask because I didn’t want them to feel obligated to do something they might not be comfortable with. Like I said, it’s different for bitten wolves. They don’t crave touch they way that born wolves do.”

“Oh. That’s really thoughtful and considerate.” Stiles steadies himself with a deep breath, locking on Derek’s eyes. _Here goes nothing_. “Well, I’m not one of your betas. I mean, I guess I’m pack or whatever, but I don’t feel compelled to obey you. Usually the opposite, in fact.”

Derek snorts into his tea, nodding.

“So, you know, I know I’m not a professional or anything, but I think I understand the basics of cuddling. I could help you out. You don’t even have to pay me, seeing as I’m an amateur and all. And you can feel comfortable knowing that I’m choosing to do it of my own free will.”

Derek studies him for a long time, heavy eyebrows raised a bit, finally relaxing and smiling down into this sweet little nod that utterly fucking breaks Stiles’ heart. “You volunteer?”

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers. The silence then is fraught, heavy with Derek’s own unasked questions. Stiles has got to break the buzzing energy between them before he goes and says something he shouldn’t. “‘I volunteer as tribute,’” he quotes, smirking.

Derek snorts, grinning wryly. “Yeah, because getting close to me is asking for a fight to the death.”

Stiles playfully thumps Derek’s knee in admonishment. “Oh my god, you know that’s not what I meant. And since when do you get Hunger Games references?”

“Since I read the books a year ago when you wouldn’t shut up about them.”

Stiles knows he must look ridiculous, gaping at him the way he is. “So,” he coughs, trying to recover, play it cool. “Are you Team Peeta or Team Gale?”

Derek scoffs. “I’m Team Katniss.”

**~*~**

Derek was right. The lovesac – which Derek admits cost a small fortune and is of a style called [“Wolf Phur,”](http://www.lovesac.com/new/winter-2014-line/winter-2014-sacs/wolf-phur-supersac-package.html) which makes Stiles laugh uproariously – is _freaking amazing_. It’s filled with soft foam, and gives way just enough under their combined weight, nestling them in, swallowing them both up in a warm, _phurry_ cocoon.

Stiles lies on his back and Derek gingerly, slowly, settles next to him, resting his head on his chest over his heart and curling around him, even wrapping his leg around Stiles’ calf. It’s strange – Derek’s huge, a towering wall of animal muscle – but like this, entwined and pressed close, one arm across his chest and hooked under his armpit, hand clutching his shoulder – he seems smaller, fragile almost. Stiles holds him close and cautiously, gently, rubs a hand across his back, sculpted, powerful muscles smooth and relaxed under his shirt.

Derek’s hair is impossibly soft where it tickles at his chin, his scruffy cheeks rough on his skin when his face pulls down the collar of his shirt when he nestles in closer, scenting like a happy puppy.

Stiles had been worried that he’d get wildly, obviously aroused cuddling Derek, but his body seems to know that this isn’t about that. The whole point is to make Derek comfortable, to put no demands on him. That’s not to say that if Derek accidentally brushes up against him or something he won’t, resulting in terrible awkwardness and his slinking away in shame and guilt.

But that doesn’t happen. In fact, Derek falls asleep just ten minutes in, and it’s not long after that that Stiles drifts off too, more comfortable and relaxed than he’s been in a long time, Derek’s steady breathing syncing up with his heart rising and falling under his cheek.

**~*~**

Derek ends his professional relationship with Patrick, who is very happy to hear that he’s found a close friend who’s helping him continue his therapy.

Sometimes they nap, and sometimes they talk in quiet, low tones, mumbling into each others chests or necks or temples. One day Stiles brings The Hobbit and offers to read it out loud to him, doesn’t say anything at the glint of shining moisture in Derek’s wide, prismatic eyes when he nods a silent yes, or about the tears that dampen his shirt later.

On a rainy afternoon in April, after a few months of cuddling several times a week, they’re on their sides, Derek curved around him, his broad chest warm against his back, arm resting in the shallow dip of Stiles’ waist. The low orange glow of the fake fire is the only light in the dim room, ethereal and safe. Derek notches closer, rubbing his beard, long and luxurious now, into the sensitive spot behind Stiles’ ear before placing a tender, achingly sweet kiss there, mouth damp on his skin, sending a bolt of sizzling heat throughout his entire body, chest fluttering. Derek kisses him again, moving down the side of his neck and then to the back, breathing softly along his hairline before stilling, sighing with contentment.

“Real or not real,” he murmurs.

Stiles clasps his hand and brings it up to kiss his fingers. “Real.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
